Bequeath
by caylender
Summary: In the spirit of giving Dean infamous weapons, someone unexpected drops by his locker room to give him a weapon all the more infamous. Kayfabe
**AN:** So this is very Kayfabe, which is an important thing to keep in mind, so it's a big leap from Pancakes. :) It's inspired with the recent RAW segments where Ambrose is given famous weapons by legends. It takes place next RAW on March 28.

Inspired by a conversation with Captain

 **Disclaimer:** I still own nothing WWE related, obviously.

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 **Bequeath**

 _verb_

to pass (something) on or leave (something) to someone else.

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Dean jumped to his feet. A frown marred his face, and his muscles were more tense than a rubber band pulled taut. He glared at the intruder, the man who had the guts to actually invite himself into Dean's locker room after everything he had done to Dean. "What do you think you're doing here?"

"I'm just following the recent trend."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't beat your smug face of yours in until it's a bloody pulp?" Dean's lips curled into a snarl, and he considered grabbing the infamous baseball bat, which was known as Barbie as bequeathed unto him by Mick Foley two weeks ago.

"Because, Dean, I come in peace." The intruder set something by the door and took a few steps into the room before pausing next to the bench. "Do you mind if I sit for a minute? It's doing a lot better than it was, but it's still very sore. I don't think it helped that I kinda pushed it in rehab earlier."

Dean's scowl softened slightly. "Yeah, go ahead."

A "Thanks" was muttered as the intruder sat gingerly down on the bench. He stretched out his leg in front of him and rubbed his knee carefully.

"Shouldn't you be on crutches still and not put pressure on the thing? I mean, not that I really care or nothing. " Dean mumbled.

"Well...Possibly. I'm trying to strengthen it, so I don't want to use them; I can't be dependent on them if I want to recover fully."

Dean sighed. "So what are you doing here?"

"I told you before, I'm following the recent trend." He carefully adjusted the brace on his knee.

"Yeah, I remember. And I asked you before, what the hell is that was supposed to mean," Dean growled, annoyance lacing his words.

The intruder stood up once again and retraced his steps to the door. "Now don't freak out at me here."

Dean muttered under his breath, mocking the intruder's instructions, "Freak out? I never freak out. What's the jerk think he's talking about? Freak out? Yeah right..."

The intruder walked back to where Dean was still standing, holding a blanket-covered...something. The intruder dropped the blanket, still keeping a grip on the object.

Dean narrowed his eyes, tensing at the sight of the object, and he inched his hand towards where he stashed Barbie.

"I said to not freak out," the intruder's voice had a hint of exasperation. "Mick Foley gave you Barbie; yes, I can see you reach for her, so please, do me a favor and not. Terry Funk gave you his chainsaw. And before you say anything (and I know you, so I know it's practically killing you to not point this out), I know I'm not at their level...yet. I'm not vain enough to think this will hold the same weight as one of the legends giving you their weapons, but this is something I feel like I have to do." He carefully held the object out slowly, like he was afraid of this simple action provoking Dean into attacking him.

Dean eyed the intruder with the same suspicious look as before, but he reached out and accepted the weapon. The metal was smooth and cool in his hands. It seemed to fit in his grip better than the other two weapons.

The intruder nodded and turned around to head back to the door, all the while holding his breath. This was a huge gamble for him, leaving his back exposed and vulnerable to Dean Ambrose, especially when Dean was holding both a grudge and a steel chair.

To his eternal surprise, the biting sting of a chair to the back never greeted him, and he made it safely to the locker room door. Just as he eased the door open, Dean's voice made him pause.

"Why did you give this to me?" Dean asked, confused.

The intruder shrugged. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

Dean shook his head. "I'm not buying it. You of all people must wanna see Lesnar beat the crap out of me and finish where you left off."

Their last meeting, a five-on-five match, was still vivid in both of their minds - the night which saw a steel chair ramming into Dean's torso and into Roman's and a voice holding so much desperation, asking the crowd if the scene before them looked familiar. And both could remember the first time when the man let a steel chair make a statement for him in the infamous _chairshot heard around the world_...

The intruder sighed and rubbed his beard. "I don't want to see Lesnar beat the crap out of you. I know what he's capable of; I've been in the ring with him, and I hate the man."

"Yeah," Dean said; his voice still coated in disbelief. "But you hate me, too, Seth."

Seth shook his head. "I never hated you, Dean."

With those parting words, he stepped through the door, and it clanked shut, leaving Dean standing alone in the dimly lit room, holding a steel chair, given to him by the most unlikely person he could have imagined.

But for some reason, it felt right.

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 **AN:** I would love to see this happen next week. I doubt they will...but you never know. What do you think?


End file.
